Passage to Pontefract (23 page)

Philipot was overcome by that Plantagenet charm; that ability of Edward’s to cast aside his royalty at the right moment and talk to a man as his equal.

Philipot assured the King that the riot had been started by a few unruly people. The City could not be blamed for that. There would always be such people.

The King agreed.

‘I have never intended to cancel the City’s liberties,’ he assured Philipot. ‘Indeed it is in my mind to extend them.’

‘My lord King, I assure you that the citizens are your most devoted subjects.’

The King nodded. ‘There is the matter of the Duke of Lancaster,’ went on the King. ‘I think those who started the riot and damaged his property and the Marshalsea should be found and punished.’

That should be done, agreed Philipot, knowing full well that they would never be found, even as the King did.

John was uneasy about the meeting. He would have preferred the King not to have seen Philipot. In any case, no culprits were brought forward and the lampoons about the Duke – chiefly referring to that changeling story – were circulated through the town and even posted up in the streets.

The King must act, said John. The Londoners were flouting him; and when they insulted his son they insulted him.

Once more the King agreed to receive a deputation. This time it was the Mayor and the Sheriffs. He was at Sheen at this time and too ill to travel to Westminster. He was very weak and had to be propped up in a chair; he found it difficult to speak.

The citizens must understand that when they insulted his son, they insulted him, he mumbled.

They would make amends, the Mayor promised the King. They would take a candle bearing the Duke’s arms and place it on the altar of the Virgin; there should be processions and the town crier should summon people to attend. This would show that the City of London and the Duke of Lancaster had buried their quarrel.

But when the ceremony was carried out it was a failure. The people refused to attend.

There was a certain amusement among those who did. Such a ceremony was usually performed in honour of the dead. Was it done subtly to suggest that they hoped Lancaster would soon be among that band?

However the people would not do honour to him.

As for John of Gaunt he saw through the insult and hated those who had arranged it. But he had to assume that the quarrel was over, because it was the only way to call a truce. And a truce there must be. There must be no more rioting. The Savoy had been saved and was hastily being repaired.

It might have been so much worse.

A great ceremony was taking place at Windsor where gathered together were the greatest nobles and all the chivalry of England.

It was to witness the ceremony of the Garter which was to be bestowed on the King’s two grandsons – Richard of Bordeaux and Henry of Bolingbroke.

There were moments when the King’s mind was very lucid and seemed to have reverted to its former shrewdness, and this was one of them.

These two, he told himself, will in time be the two most powerful men in England. Richard the King; Henry his cousin, son of John of Gaunt, who is the richest and most influential man in the country under the King.

Edward wanted to see them together. They were of an age, those two, and grandsons of whom a man could be proud. Richard was the elder by a few months – tall, very handsome, yet slender and delicate looking. He will grow out of that, thought Edward. The people will love him, for they admire a handsome man. And he has gracious manners and is clever with words. And Henry – rather stocky but goodly to look on. Of course the people would not care for the son of John of Gaunt as they did for the son of the Black Prince.

They had always loved Edward. He had that quality which drew people to him; and what a hero! And what a tragedy that he should die and leave this young boy to take his place. They had loved Edward as fiercely as they had hated John.

But these two boys must be friends when they grew up. He wanted that. He would have a talk with them after the ceremony.

There was little time left. Alice tried to persuade him that he was well. She tried to prove it, and he tried to pretend it was so to please her.

That affair in the Cathedral had been alarming. He thanked God Courtenay had intervened and prevented further damage. William of Wykeham was restored to his place. Alice had persuaded him and he had had him recalled. He knew that Alice, the minx, had accepted a big bribe from Wykeham, and that was why she had acted for him. It amused him really. These men of the Church were not above a bit of sly bargaining, so if Wykeham was ready to pay for favours why should people criticise Alice for taking advantage of it!

When the ceremony was over he called the two boys to him and told them that he wanted them always to be good friends.

‘The Garter is the symbol of this illustrious order,’ he told them. ‘It is the Order of Chivalry. Never forget it. Because it has been bestowed on you, you must always be courageous and just and preserve your honour at all times. You understand me?’

They both assured him that they understood.

‘Take each other’s hands. There. Now you are joined in love and friendship. The time will come when I am gone and you, Richard, will wear the crown. Henry, remember, he will be your liege lord. Serve him well. And Richard, this is your good cousin. Your fathers were brothers. Proud Plantagenet blood flows through your veins. Stand together. That is where your strength will lie.’

The King was tired suddenly. But a calm had come to him. He was relieved to talk to the boys, to bring them together.

He had a feeling that he had achieved an important mission.

Now he was tired. He wanted his bed … and Alice.

Edward lay at Sheen Palace. It was hot in the apartment for it was the month of June.

He had known he was growing weaker and in spite of Alice’s assurances that he was getting better every day he knew he was dying.

He was a sick old man. He was in his sixty-fifth year and out of those sixty-five years he had reigned for fifty-one. It was a great record.

Indeed it had been a great reign. It was only the last years that had brought him shame. Philippa had died and left him and without her he was bereft. Although to be truthful he had started with Alice before Philippa died.

Well, so are great men fallen. Their weaknesses catch up with them; and it was strange to contemplate that he, the faithful husband for so long, should have become such a slave to his senses. He knew what Alice wanted; but what a companion she had been! All through his life he had been restraining his impulses and it was only rarely that he had broken free.

Well, now here he was dying … great Edward, no longer great, no longer admired, no longer loved by his people.

Just an old man – a rather loathsome old man, but still the hero of Sluys and Crécy. The shining hero who had set out to win the throne of France and had failed so miserably.

What was he leaving to his grandson? He dared not think. ‘God, save Richard. It is not his fault that he is inheriting a bankrupt kingdom. Oh God, if you had not taken Edward …’

Ah, that was at the heart of the tragedy. Edward had died. If Edward had been in health, he would never have allowed the country to get into this state. There would not have been riots in the streets. There would not have been bribery and corruption in high places. If Edward had been strong and healthy … But God had seen fit to take that bulwark of strength and leave but a frail boy in his place. But he was dying now. This was the end.

There was only one priest by his bedside. He could just see him.

The priest was placing the cross in his hands and he was saying ‘
Jesu miserere …
’

He kissed the cross.

Then he was lying in his bed and he could see no one.

Slowly life was ebbing away.

Very soon after Alice came to the bedside.

He was gone, this poor doting old man was no more. This was the end of Alice.

She pulled the rings from his fingers, collected what jewels she could and left the palace.

PART TWO
RICHARD OF BORDEAUX

  Chapter VIII  

THE GATHERING STORM

R
ichard was exultant. To be a ten-year-old King was surely the finest thing in the world. Tomorrow was the day of his coronation and the whole of London, the whole of the country, was eager to tell him how much he was loved.

He had come to the Tower of London, his mother beside him, and the people had thrown garlands of flowers at him; they had shouted his name. Their loyal cheers still echoed in his ears.

How they loved him! And how he loved them!

‘It is the Crown they cheer,’ Simon had said. ‘It is the symbol of kingship.’

Oh no, he thought. They cheer me. They love me, because I am young and good to look on and they are tired of old men.

So it seemed, for it was true that they were rapturous at the sight of him. They threw kisses to him. They called him their dear little King. He was the true King, the grandson of a great King, the son of a great Prince.

‘Richard!’ they shouted. ‘Long live Richard.’

His uncle John had been to see him. He was very quiet and serious and Richard did not quite know what he was thinking.

‘I shall be with you at the coronation,’ he told his nephew. ‘As High Steward of England I have the right to bear the sword. I shall demand that right.’

‘So should you,’ replied Richard.

‘And as Earl of Lincoln I have the right to carve before you at the coronation feast.’

‘I know it,’ answered Richard.

‘And when the ceremony is over I intend to retire from Court for a while.’

Now Richard was astonished.

‘Yes,’ went on John, ‘I have been subjected to slanderous attacks, and I think my best plan is to leave for a while. So I shall ask your permission to remain in the country for a time.’

‘It is granted,’ said Richard in as authoritative a voice as he could command.

John bowed his head and went on to discuss the arrangements for the coronation.

‘There are many who are demanding to perform the traditional ceremonies,’ he explained. ‘So many claims, alas, for one post I shall have to select with care.’

‘People talk of nothing but the coronation,’ said Richard with delight.

‘It is a very important occasion, nephew. We shall have to take care with these Londoners who are only too ready to make trouble whenever they can find an excuse to do so. The Lord Mayor wishes to serve you with a golden cup and they want some of the leading citizens to serve in the butlery.’

‘I shall have no objection,’ said Richard. ‘They have never shown anything but kindness to me.’

John was not very pleased with that remark and was about to say something when he changed his mind.

They all must remember that I am the King now, thought Richard complacently.

‘I am bringing forward young Robert de Vere, the Earl of Oxford. If you are agreeable you might permit him to act as your Chamberlain. He is quite young.’

‘How old?’ asked Richard.

‘He must be perhaps fifteen years old. His father died some time ago when Robert de Vere was only nine. He inherited at about the same age as yourself. I have him waiting below. Would you consent to see him now?’

Richard appeared to consider. It was so enjoyable to have important men, so much his senior, asking for his consent to this and that.

Yes, he thought he could see the young Earl of Oxford now.

‘Then he shall come to you. I shall introduce him and leave you together. You can give your verdict after you have seen him.’

Within a few minutes Robert de Vere, Earl of Oxford came into the room.

From the beginning Richard liked the look of him. He was good looking and it was pleasant to find that although he was older than Richard, it was not by so many years; Richard began the interview somewhat haughtily making sure that young de Vere remembered that he was the King, but his attitude changed after a few minutes because there was something so natural about the other boy that Richard felt he could be perfectly natural with him, too.

Robert de Vere told Richard he was fifteen. Richard said he wished he were. It was rather tiresome being only ten.

‘Ten and a King!’ said Robert. ‘I was about ten when I became an Earl. But it is very different being a King.’

Robert told Richard how there were plans afoot to marry him. His guardian, Ingelran de Couci, who had been made Earl of Bedford when he had married King Edward’s daughter Isabella, had been his guardian and he wanted to marry him to his daughter Philippa.

‘Married!’ said Richard. ‘They’ll be wanting to marry me to someone soon.’

‘You can be sure of that.
You’ll
choose your bride though. You’re the King. You can do as you wish.’

It was a pleasant conversation.

‘And you, you don’t want to marry this Philippa?’

‘I don’t want to marry anybody. But if I marry her I shall have some sort of connection with you, shan’t I? Her mother was your father’s sister. Think of that.’

‘You will be connected with my family!’

‘That makes it a better proposition,’ said Robert de Vere and they laughed together.

Richard made up his mind that he would tell his uncle that he would be very happy to make Robert his chamberlain.

A close friendship had begun.

London was determined to honour the new King. In Cheapside they had erected a castle of flowers from which ran two streams of wine. There were four turrets and on each of these stood a girl who had been chosen for her beauty and her age, which was the same as the King’s. As Richard rode past on his way from the Tower, flowers and leaves made of gilded paper were thrown down at him. The procession came to a halt and the girls came down from their towers and filled golden goblets with wine which they handed to the King and his attendants. Then an angel appeared from the castle with a golden crown which she placed on the little King’s head.

The crowd cheered. The people were proud of the magnificent spectacle which the Londoners had contrived, for not only did it show their loyalty but it also reminded the King of their power and that if he would rule well he must never forget the interests of his capital city.

Richard was moved with emotion and his happiness and delight was so obvious that it added to the general rejoicing.

All along the road to Westminster such pageants had been arranged and though none of these quite equalled the one of Cheapside, they were very impressive.

Crowds had gathered round the Abbey and when the procession appeared, headed by the young King with Simon walking before him, his sword bared, the cheers were deafening.

The Bishop of Rochester preached the sermon and the Archbishop of Canterbury conducted the ceremony; and as the proceedings went on, and Richard could no longer hear the cheers of the crowd, he began to grow rather tired. The Bishop seemed as though he was never going to stop and then there was the ceremony of taking off his coat and shirt while men stood holding a gold-coloured cloth around him like a tent so that none of the people gathered in the Abbey should see his body. Then he was anointed and the prayers went on and on. After that there were the coronation rituals. The crown was so heavy that it seemed to weigh down his head. Then the sceptre and the orb were put into his hands. The spurs were presented and the pallium which was heavily encrusted with jewels was put on.

He knew what he had to do. He had to walk to the altar and lay a gold purse on it, but even that was not the end. There had to be the mass and the communion after that, and he was finding it increasingly hard to keep his eyes open.

Simon was watching him anxiously. He smiled wanly at his dear guardian. ‘Not much longer,’ Simon seemed to be saying.

The crown was growing more and more heavy. Richard felt it would crush him; and his shoulders refused to support all his garments any longer. He felt an almost irresistible inclination to slip to the floor and go to sleep.

Simon was watching carefully and understood. Suddenly he had picked the young King up in his arms.

‘All is well,’ he whispered. ‘We are going back to the palace now. We’re going to have a rest and a nice sleep before the banquet.’

‘Oh Simon …’

The comfort of those arms was wonderful. Richard closed his eyes while Simon walked with him through the astonished crowds and out to the litter over which a canopy of silk was held by four wardens of the Cinque Ports.

‘He is but a child,’ muttered Simon.

‘Our dear little King is tired,’ cried the people. ‘Oh, he is only a boy, God bless him.’

The cheers went up. There was their little King so pretty in the arms of good Simon who clearly loved him.

As Simon pressed through the crowds who came forward for a closer look at their King, one of Richard’s slippers fell off and as Simon pressed on to the litter, there was a scramble among the crowds for the King’s shoe.

Richard was soon fast asleep and it seemed almost immediately Simon was at his bedside. It was time to prepare for the state banquet.

‘You have had a good sleep,’ said Simon fondly. ‘You were tired out, my King.’

Richard sat up. He put his hands to his head. He could still feel the crown there.

‘It was so heavy,’ he said.

Simon nodded. ‘A symbol of your responsibilities,’ he commented grimly. ‘But not yet. There will be many to advise you … perhaps too many.’

I am a King, thought Richard. I am the most important person in the country. The people love me. From henceforth I shall ride among them and they will cheer me and love me for ever. But he hoped that future ceremonies would not be quite as tiring as the coronation.

‘Did I do well, Simon?’ he asked – suddenly a young boy eager for his tutor’s approval.

‘You did very well indeed.’

‘But to fall asleep when you picked me up! I don’t remember coming into the palace. Then I dreamed that I could still hear the people shouting.’

‘It was such a long day for you,’ soothed Simon. ‘I think the people loved you more for falling asleep. It touched them. They went wild with love for you when they saw me pick you up and put you in the litter. People are like that. They like very much a touch of human nature. You lost a slipper, you know.’

‘What became of it?’

‘It fell from your foot. There was a scramble for it. I saw one man get it and hold it up and kiss it.’